If You Weren't So Good
by maricsblade
Summary: Anders shows up at Hawke's door after the final battle. Will she turn him away again, or can she find it in herself to forgive him?  Kink!meme fill.


Hawke jumped as she heard a pounding at the front door. He was here again. She'd already turned him away several times in the last few days, but it appeared that he was more persistent than she'd given him credit for.

She opened the door a crack and peered out at him. "I guess you're just not going to let me be, are you?" Her tone was scathing.

He looked gaunt—well, even more so than usual. There were dark circles under his eyes and his expression was desperate. "Please let me in, Marian. I have to talk to you. You can't just go on shutting me out forever."

"Actually, I can," she snapped. "Or would you eventually just blow me up too?"

"That was uncalled for," he muttered, eyes downcast. "You know that I would never hurt you."

Of course he'd hurt her—just not directly. Nevertheless, seeing the shape he was in, she felt a pang in her chest and resignedly opened the door wide enough for him to enter.

He didn't look at her, didn't say a word, just headed straight for the living room. He didn't even have the energy to sit in a chair, he realized, and plopped down exhausted on the floor.

Bodhan was wringing his hands. "My, look at the time!" the dwarf exclaimed, looking out a window at the afternoon sun. "If I'm going to make it to the market, I'd better leave straight away. Sandal! Oriana! It's time to go!" He turned to face her. "Mistress Hawke, I'll be back around dinnertime."

She nodded curtly. The trio left so quickly that they practically tripped over each other trying to get out the door. It closed behind them, and she and Anders were alone.

She paced the room, face flushed, heart pounding, blood roaring in her ears. She didn't quite look herself either; her hair, normally so tidy in its high ponytail, hung loose and disheveled around her face. In her mind's eye she saw, over and over again, a sky roiling with dark clouds and massive stone towers crumbling to dust. She felt the now familiar sensation of a fiery, poisonous blade turning in her chest.

He had made her his accomplice. The man she loved had played her for a fool, and no amount of crying, self-recrimination, or pleading with the Maker could undo her crime.

She snatched a vase from her desk and flung it at a wall. She relished the sight and sound of it shattering to pieces. _Champion of Kirkwall_. What would they call her now that her apostate lover had pulled a stunt even worse than blood mages trying to topple Ferelden's Circle of Magi?

Her robe fluttered as she whirled to face him. "How? How could you do it, Anders?"

He sat cross-legged on the floor, placidly looking up at her, the picture of passivity. He was not contrite; he could not pretend to be. But he knew better than to engage her on this topic. It was pointless now anyway, wasn't it? That had been the whole reason for doing it. To shut down discussion. To close off possibilities.

He lifted his chin. "Why didn't you kill me?" he asked softly.

She snorted. Oh, she'd _wanted_ to run him through. She didn't need her companions to tell her to do it. Her ears had rung with the cries of innocent souls wailing for justice. She'd felt lost in waves of pain and anger at the scale of his betrayal. Yet for some reason she still didn't understand, she hadn't even been able to draw her blade. She could only stare at him in horror.

She began again. "How could you kill all those people, Anders? Elthina, the only voice of reason we'd heard since coming to Kirkwall? You even said you'd been wrong about her. Don't you remember?"

He looked away and stubbornly repeated his question. "Why didn't you kill me?"

It was becoming obvious that he wasn't going to answer her. He'd already said all he was going to say, she supposed, when it had happened. Any means to that end. Anything to force the issue, settle it once and for all.

"You're the only healer I have," she said flatly. "Like it or not, you were…indispensable."

Anders turned this over in his mind for a moment. But no. It didn't wash. What he'd done was too terrible for that to be a factor, even heading into battle against Meredith. And she hadn't slain him afterward, either, when she'd no longer had any immediate use for him.

He stared at the floor. "That's malarkey and you know it."

She turned away from him again and leaned against the wall, her head on her forearm. She didn't want to think about the answer to his question and what it said about her.

She was silent for a full minute. Then he saw her shoulders begin to rise and fall in an unmistakeable pattern.

He rose and stepped toward her, and as he grew closer he heard her stifled sobs. He laid a hand gently on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

He hadn't wanted to make her cry. But nothing else remained to be said. He'd done it, and he'd do it again tomorrow if the situation were the same. He really wouldn't have blamed her for giving him what he rightly deserved, right there in the courtyard with Meredith and Orsino and everyone else urging her on. But he could not and would not take it back.

"Please, Marian, don't cry."

Tears ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was having trouble breathing.

"I hate you," she said, straightening and wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "Actually, I hate myself. Partly because despite my utter fury and horror at what you did, some tiny part of me was _proud of you_—even awed by you. By the strength of your convictions. And partly because I helped you do it, though I didn't mean to. I loved you, and I trusted you, and that made me weak. How could you do this to me?"

Tears welled up again in her eyes. His heart ached to see her this way. He did feel sorry for having used her. But that was the only real regret he had.

"Marian," he said softly, and reached for her hand. She would not look at him, but this time she didn't flinch from his touch. He tugged gently, and she shuffled forward a couple of steps. He led her to the foot of the stairs, then turned and ascended, still holding her hand, and they crossed the landing into her bedroom. He surprised her by picking her up and laying her down on the bed, where he joined her.

She lay on her back and he was at her side, using his bent arm as a pillow. He wished he knew a spell that would soothe her mind instead of her body. But only words could do that.

"I'm sorry that I took advantage of your feelings for me," he murmured, cupping her face in his hand. "It was wrong, and I regret having involved you. If I'm lucky enough to stay with you, I swear I'll never do it again."

She said nothing—merely closed her eyes and nodded. He leaned over and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips. She surprised him by responding, mildly but unmistakably, to his mouth. Then she turned her head, exposing the smooth, pale flesh of her neck.

He admired her for a moment. Even with her unruly hair, red eyes, and tear-stained cheeks, she was incredibly beautiful. Obviously, she cared for him deeply. But what had he done to deserve it? He supposed the better question was, given all that had happened, what could he do to continue to deserve it?

He pushed those thoughts from his mind, determined to focus on comforting her. He nuzzled and kissed her neck, and heard her sigh. He sat up to remove his clothing, and when his garments lay in a heap on the floor, he turned to her and slowly pulled off her boots, then undid the tie on her robe. As it fell open she turned and stretched to kiss him, and he reached for a half-covered breast.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear, gently kneading her flesh with one hand while stroking her hair with the other. "And I know I don't deserve you. How can I make it up to you?"

She looked to him briefly, then looked away. "I don't know, Anders. I love you too. But I don't know that I can ever forgive you." He'd committed an atrocity; there was no other word for it. Yet if she were truly honest with herself she would admit that she found the sheer power in his act thrilling. She was disgusted with herself. But she realized, with him lying next to her so tender and solicitous, that she wasn't ready to give him up.

She closed her eyes and pushed herself more firmly into his hand. "Do…do that frost/fire thing," she commanded quietly.

He concentrated his attention on her nipple, rubbing and tweaking, alternately conjuring frost and flame, and then did the same to her other breast, until she was writhing beneath him. She'd told him once that when he did this her nipples felt like ice on fire—the gelid burn of frostbite. And he knew exactly what she meant, because he'd done the same thing to himself on those rare occasions, before Justice turned his world upside down, when he found himself aroused but alone. The sensation was exquisite, if he did say so himself.

As she lay there, back arched, robe having fallen away, he thought she looked like a desire demon taking her last breath. He lunged for her and took a hard peak into his mouth, licking, swirling, sucking, his hand busy at her other fleshy globe. His stiffened cock pressed against her side, straining when she moaned, begging to get closer to the center of those thrusting hips.

"Will you—?" she began, and she didn't even have to finish her sentence because he knew what she was going to ask. When he nodded, she felt herself grow wet with anticipation. His fingers began to move, and moments later he had created a crackling, triangular electrical field between her nipples and her clitoris. It was a game they played, seeing how long she could last. She moaned and thrashed, gyrating her hips, thoroughly enjoying herself, and it seemed that no time had passed at all when she announced that she was about to come. He watched as an expression of ecstasy crossed her face, and now his cock was telling him in no uncertain terms that it was _time_—time for him to take her.

He put his arm around her and turned her onto her hands and knees, and she flexed her back and pushed her round, athletic buttocks back toward him. He rubbed the tip of his erection in her soaking wet curls and teased her until she caught him by surprise and thrust herself backward onto his cock. He grunted with pleasure at the feeling of being suddenly enveloped in tight, wet heat. And then he was off, slipping and sliding, plumbing her slowly and as deeply as he could reach. When he got close to losing control he would cool himself off, literally, which only made her warmth feel even hotter by comparison, and he knew from experience that she loved the feel of that sudden chill inside her.

He continued, languorously but relentlessly, until he heard her moans begin to rise in pitch. "Are you ready to come for me, my love?"

"Please, Anders," she breathed. "Harder…faster…"

He was only too happy to comply. She whimpered every time his hips slammed into her, and he knew that part of what she was enjoying was the feeling of his balls slapping against her clit with each stroke. He continued to thrust into her, and then he felt his sac tighten and his cock start to swell and twitch.

"Anders," she cried. Her whimper grew to an unearthly howl as her climax swelled and overtook her.

Feeling her muscles contract rhythmically around him was all he needed to finally lose control. His thrusts became violent and haphazard, and he groaned loudly as his seed erupted into her.

When the movement of his hips slowed he fell over on his side, taking her down with him, then pushed her hair up and and kissed the back of her neck. She rolled over to face him. Her anger and bitterness seemed to have left her—at least temporarily.

"People won't know what to say when they find out it was you." She pushed his sweaty bangs off his forehead. "All they saw was an earnest, altruistic healer working day and night to cure the indigent." She sighed. "Even I didn't know quite what I was getting into."

He wasn't sure what to say. He certainly didn't want to set her off again. He exhaled and looked at the ceiling. "I know. I guess, in one way or another, I've always been…a bad boy."

She ran her hand over his chest and thought about the stories he and Isabela had told about his life in Ferelden: the repeated escapes from the Circle, the flamboyant arrogance, the freewheeling promiscuity. "I suppose you have," she admitted. "And I really hate to think so, but part of me wonders if half the reason I didn't kill you that day is that you're so damned spectacular in bed."

He laughed. "That must be it. I guess I have quite the pedigree…unrepentant apostate, talented mage, reformed libertine…" He tightened his buttocks and rubbed himself, already fully erect again, against her thigh. "And for all the complaints I have about my time in the Grey Wardens, there's one thing I wouldn't give up."

He was so maddening! Feeling him against her leg was getting her going all over again.

"But I'm the bloody Champion of Kirkwall!" she protested. "I can't be led around by my genitalia!"

His eyelids were heavy as he gave her an appraising look. "Oh? Is that a challenge?"

She felt a flutter between her legs as she saw electricity arc between his fingertips.


End file.
